


A Patient Man

by a_secret_scribbler



Series: Fragile [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Developing Relationship, Domestic Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV Lestrade, Physical Abuse, Sexual Content, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-17 06:24:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5857570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_secret_scribbler/pseuds/a_secret_scribbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My story "Vulnerable" as seen through the eye's of Greg Lestrade. You might want to read that one first.</p><p> </p><p>Important. Contains mentions of domestic abuse and violence, both physical, and mental. Please don't read if these are triggers for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Gregory Lestrade always had an eye for a tall, well turned out gentleman. He would joke that it was his only weakness…well...apart from smoking, drinking, Indian food and punk bands…So, when he bumped, quite literally, into Mycroft Holmes, one icy February evening, after leaving the younger Holmes languishing in a cell for the night to cool off, he knew he was royally fucked.

He put a cigarette between his lips, and whilst frisking his pockets for his lighter, stepped out of the door at NSY and onto a pavement that was masquerading as an ice rink. He skidded for about three feet and face planted into a charcoal grey cashmere overcoat with a woolly “whumph.” Struggling to find his footing, he did a damn fine impression of Bambi skating on the frozen ground, before directing his face upwards where he found himself in the undignified position of being held upright by the most attractive man he’d laid eyes on, since he’d escorted a young Liam Neeson look alike home from the pub in 1998. Spitting the crushed cigarette out of his mouth, he gave, what he hoped to be, his best winning smile and took a careful step backwards.

“Erm…Thank you for that. You probably saved me a trip to the A&E…Greg Lestrade,” he said holding out his hand.

The other man gave a grimace, that may or may not have been a smile, and gripped his hand in a perfect handshake, neither too limp nor too firm, “Detective Inspector Lestrade. Very pleased to meet you. Mycroft Holmes. I believe you have my younger brother in your cells right now. I was just on my way to extricate him before he drives the duty sergeant to drink.”

“You’re Sherlock’s brother? Really? I thought he’d sprung fully formed from the arse of a peacock…Sorry, no offence to your mother, but he’s a one isn’t he?” Greg stammered.

The laughter that exploded from the other man was unexpected and contagious, and both men found themselves sniggering at Greg’s exuberant metaphor. “Well. That’s a new one on me, and believe me when I say that I have heard my brother described as many, many, things in the past.” Mycroft said managing to get himself back in control. “Yes. I have the dubious honour of being Sherlock’s older brother and sometime minder.”

“I bet he’s a bloody handful. He keeps showing up at my crime scenes, ranting about this and that, telling half the team that they’re incompetent and scaring the crap out of the other half. Thing is, he’s bloody good, I’ve listened to what he’s spouting and most of the time he’s right, trouble is, and I hope I’m not telling you something you don’t already know here…”

“He’s not exactly sober…” interrupted Mycroft.

“That’s putting it mildly. He’s out of it tonight. He’s got nothing on him, he’s not daft enough to show up with his gear, but I’d put money on him being coked off his tits. He’s pacing the cell, rambling like a mad man. We’ve got someone looking in on him every ten minutes and there’s nothing on him that he could harm himself with, but it’s not good…”

Mycroft looked down at his shoes and shook his head. “He was the brightest student of his year at Cambridge, he threw it away when he got romantically involved with another student who introduced him to drugs. He dropped out when the other boy dumped him, and made his way to London. He’s been living in squats and drug dens since. Both my parents and I have tried to get him into a facility to get him clean, but he refuses. I fear that one night I won’t be claiming him from a police station, but rather, claiming his body from the morgue.”

“Look. He seems keen on solving crime, and he could be brilliant at it, if only he’d show up clean. You know what, I’ve just had a thought how we could work together to try and get him off the drugs…”

And so a plot was hatched between the two men which involved a tiny bit of blackmail, a stay in a very exclusive rehabilitation facility, and a new address. This, of course, lead in turn to a new job title, the only one in the world, and a loyal companion. But let’s not get off subject, this is the story about how Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade helped Mr Mycroft Holmes, discover what it feels like to be loved by a truly good man.

*

“Well that was thoroughly unpleasant. Promise me that we won’t have to repeat the experience, in this, or any other lifetime, John.”

“Just be grateful that Greg texted and we managed to make a quick getaway.”

The door to his office was ajar so Greg heard the two men approach before John knocked and poked his head around, “Greg. You called?”

“Yeah, come in please, take a seat, sorry if I interrupted anything.” Greg said gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk.

John sat down but Sherlock refused, and began to pace the floor, “Just coffee with my infuriating brother and his smarmy boyfriend.” His slim fingers made air quotes around the word boyfriend and he grimaced.

John suppressed a smile, “We’ve just been introduced to Paul, Mycroft’s new chap, and His Highness here is just a bit peeved because I wouldn’t let him deduce the poor bloke into ash…”

Greg picked up a chewed biro and began to fiddle with it, “Mycroft’s got a bloke then? I didn’t think he was into relationships and all that. He’s never mentioned being with anyone in the past…”

“Really Lestrade? You mean he didn’t take advantage of the meetings that you occasionally have with him at his office to fill you in on his affairs of the heart? You do surprise me. I can just picture you both wearing pink pyjamas and braiding each other’s hair, while you fawn over pictures of Jacob Beaver…”

Greg blushed, “Shut it Sherlock! You know what I mean, I know he’s a secretive bastard, but I thought we were friends. I thought he’d have told me if there was someone special in his life, that’s all…and it’s Justin Bieber, if you must know…”

“Sherlock. Sit the fuck down will you, you’re causing a draught. Greg, we only found out a couple of days ago when we were invited to meet them both for coffee today…” John started, “Summoned, you mean,” Sherlock interrupted with a scowl.

“Sherlock. Sit!” John growled in his best Captain Watson voice, the taller man crumpled into a chair immediately and began fiddling with the hem of his coat. “I’ve never known him have a partner either to be fair Greg, he’s always so self-contained. Couldn’t have seen him with anyone really, well, not before now, he seems quite smitten with this Paul bloke though, doesn’t he Sherlock?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Yes he does John. There’s something off about him though, I don’t suppose you could do a background check, Lestrade?”

“No I bloody couldn’t. Christ Sherlock, can you imagine the heap of shit that would come raining down on me if Mycroft found out? It’s taken him years to trust me and I won’t betray that. Besides which you don’t suppose that PA of his won’t have run his record already? If Mycroft is happy with this Paul fellow, then I guess we should be happy for him…for them…” Greg said rubbing his hand through his hair. “Now I didn’t get you over here to gossip about Mycroft’s love life, there’s been an interesting case dropped on my desk, right up your street, a man booked into hotel last Thursday, yesterday the maid goes in and finds him dead in his bed, dressed in women’s underwear, missing his left arm. It shows up later in the British library shelved under 616.0252"

Sherlock sat up straight. “The Dewey Decimal System...ah...First Aid...Has the scene been disturbed? Why didn’t you call me earlier? Come on John, Lestrade, let’s go.”

“Hold on Sherlock, the only reason this has ended up with me is because the chap is a politician and he lives in Knightsbridge. The body is on its way to Dr Hooper as we speak, and I’ve got all the photographs that were taken in this file, you wanna look?”

“Of course.” Sherlock held out his hand and beckoned with his fingers, Greg dropped the file into his palm and sat back in his chair. After fifteen minutes, he glanced at John, “Do you fancy stepping out for a cuppa, while we wait for the genius to percolate?”

“Yeah, we’ll fetch you one back Sherlock.” John said placing a hand on his partner shoulder. “Yes, yes John, if you must. Now go, drink tea, do the male bonding thing, football, Dr Who, with whatisname…”

John grinned and followed Greg out of the door, “You do know that he does know your name don’t you?”

“Yeah, he just doesn’t want me to think he might actually like me. God forbid!” Greg said shrugging on his jacket as they headed for the lift.

*

Greg didn’t make it back home for three days, most of which were spent chasing the coat tails of a crazy consulting detective and his doctor friend, but, case solved, and John and Sherlock poured into a cab and sent back to Baker Street, he was bone tired, eager for a shower, and starving hungry. He let himself into his flat and went straight to the kitchen. Rooting through the fridge he found a Marks and Spencer chicken korma that was only a day or so out of date, he peeled back the cellophane, gave it a sniff, shrugged, and put it into the microwave. Six minutes, that should just about give him time for a quick shower. He emptied his pockets onto the kitchen table, checked his phone, completely dead, plugged it into the charger, and headed off to the bathroom, dropping his clothes as he went. One of the many advantages of living alone was that there was no one to nag at you to pick up after yourself.

He heard the microwave ping when he was towelling himself down, and, after pulling on a pair of jersey pyjama bottoms and a faded and worn Clash tee shirt, he headed back to the kitchen. Deciding against dirtying up a plate, he slung the hot plastic container onto a tray, grabbed a beer and a fork. He was just leaving the room to go collapse onto the couch when he heard a flurry of texts arrive on his phone. Grabbing it and the charger, he took the whole lot to the living room, flicked on the telly, and made himself comfortable in the corner of the couch. He took a large forkful of rice and curry before reaching for his phone to see who was so eager to contact him. The first text was from John.

**Sherlock says don’t expect to see him until the day after tomorrow, he intends to sleep for 18 hours and then eat until he’s in a food coma. We’ll see you Thursday. JW**

The next was from Sherlock,

_Please ignore everything that John has just said, if you need us before Thursday, if it’s an 8 or above, text. SH_

Greg laughed out loud at that, he could imagine John trying to wrangle Sherlock into bed, he’d been practically dead on his feet by the time John had taken down and broken the arm of the suspect for pulling a knife at Sherlock. Greg had sent them both packing and taken the stupid pillock to the cells, via A & E.

He noticed that there were a couple of texts from Mycroft too,

**_Gregory, I would appreciate the utmost discretion in the handling of this case. Please call me when you have time. MH_ **

And, a short while later.

**_Gregory. I need you to call before the paperwork is completed, I’m sorry, but this is out of your hands. Call me. Urgent. MH_ **

Damn the man. This had happened on a number of occasions, he’d done all the legwork and then Mycroft had come swooping in and disappeared with all the evidence and paperwork, leaving nothing but a basket of Danish pastries for the team, and his very best wishes. He scrolled down his contacts and put the call through, mindful of his 15% battery.

After a couple of rings the phone was answered, “Good evening Gregory, I take it you got my messages.”

“Yeah. He’s one of your lot then? I won’t even bother asking John and Sherlock to fill in the paperwork, no point I take it.” He took another forkful of curry.

“No, there really wouldn’t be any point at all. I’ll take it from here. If you don’t mind?”

“Huh…And if I do?”

“Well, my dear man. That would just be a complete waste of your time and resources wouldn’t it?” Mycroft said, Greg could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Okay. I get it…Oh…There’s a stall in Covent Garden, does really good cupcakes. I’m particularly fond of the chocolate orange ones, you know, for a change, I’m getting a bit bored of Danish…”

Mycroft laughed at this, “Very droll Detective Inspector. I’ll see what I can do.”

“That would be appreciated Mr Holmes,” he yawned loudly, “Christ. Sorry Mycroft, I’m knackered, that brother of yours has dragged me all over the city in the last few days. I really am getting too old for all this shit.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Gregory, you’re still full of the vim and vigour of a man half your age. Besides, who would handle Sherlock if you took a desk job?”

“Ha. You’ve got a point there. Talking of vim and vigour, a little bird told me you’ve got yourself a new bloke.” Greg wheedled.

“Ah…I take it the bird happened to be six foot one and wearing a deerstalker?”

“That’ll be the one…Beautiful plumage.”

“Yes. I believe he’s a variant of the Norwegian Blue, and certainly not dead.”

“Stop avoiding the question Mycroft…”

“Yes Gregory. I have found someone who can bear to be in my company for more than fifteen minutes at a time, so I thought I’d better grab him before he realises that he’s way out of my league. I’m sure Sherlock will have filled you in, but he’s called Paul, we’ve been seeing each other for about four months and, I am almost frightened to say this, but it seems to be going well so far.” Mycroft said. Greg could almost feel the heat of the other man’s cheeks down the phone.

“Well, that’s good news then. You’re happy. Congratulations. Do I get to meet this mystery man?”

“Yes. Of course. I take it you have been invited to Angelo’s to celebrate John’s birthday? We’ll both be there.”

“Yeah. I’m going. I look forward to it. Look, I’ve got to go, need to finish my dinner and get myself to bed. I’ll see you soon Mycroft.”

“No doubt. Sleep well Gregory.”

The line went dead and Greg, who took one look at the congealed mess in front of him and lost his appetite, picked up the tray, switched off the telly and the lights, and headed off to bed.

That night he dreamt of being wrapped up in long, pale, limbs. Held tight whilst he moaned into soft freckled skin. He woke up hard and ashamed of his subconscious overriding the damned good job he was doing of keeping his feelings for his friend deeply buried. He took himself off to the shower and dealt with things swiftly and efficiently, and then, putting all such thoughts out of his head, he set off to work.

On his desk, when he arrived, were two dozen beautifully iced cupcakes in a large box, plus one individually boxed with **‘The property of DI Lestrade’** written on it. He opened the small box to find one individual chocolate orange cupcake nestled in pale pink tissue. Taking out his phone he sent a short text, **_Cheers mate :-)_** before picking up the other 24 and taking them to the kitchen for the rest of his team.

*


	2. Chapter 2

 

John’s birthday arrived with a whimper, rather than a bang, well, perhaps a small bang looking at the way Sherlock was walking...Greg met the famous Paul and took an instant dislike to him. It was completely irrational, the bloke was charming, young, had model good looks, and seemed to dote on Mycroft. It was sickening. Greg found himself sitting next to Molly Hooper, who, bless her heart, did her best to keep the conversation going, until she’d caught him sneaking a look across the table one too many times, and said “I don’t suppose he knows how you feel about him, does he?” Greg almost choked on his wine and she patted him on the back vigorously.

“Jesus Molly, just say what you think. Don’t mince your words,” he spluttered.

“Greg. I spent years fawning after that idiot up there,” she nodded towards Sherlock, “I even dated a look alike. I know when someone’s quietly dying inside, believe me, I recognise all the symptoms.”

“Shhhh. Look, I admit I’ve had a bit of a thing for Sherlock’s brother, but it’s obvious he’s pretty besotted with that Paul chap, so I might as well get my head out of my arse and just forget all about him.”

Molly smiled “Yeah, Good luck with that.” she raised her glass and clinked it against his “Unrequited love…” Greg winced and threw back the rest of the wine in his glass.

“Look Molly. Just don’t say anything to Sherlock, or anyone, please…”

“Your dirty secret is safe with me Greg, besides which, no one takes much notice of me anyhow…”

The party broke up shortly after that, and the small group made their way outside to look for cabs. Mycroft beckoned Greg over “Would you like to share our cab Gregory? We’re not that far from you.” Greg watched as Paul slipped an arm possessively around Mycroft’s waist.

“Yes Gregory. We promise we’ll keep our hands above the waist until we get home, won’t we darling?” Paul said with a smirk.

“No, thanks, its fine. I promised I’d see Molly home, make sure she gets in safe…you know…it's on my way...Didn’t I Molly?”

Molly looked over at Paul and Mycroft and wobbled theatrically on her heels, “Yeah. What he said…” she said vaguely waving her arms in the direction of Greg.

A cab pulled up and Paul practically dragged Mycroft into it and slammed the door, rolling down the window he gave a salute to John before the driver sped off in the direction of Mycroft's town house.

“Come on then, let’s get me home, then you can go back to your flat and cry into your pillow…” Molly said holding out her hand to flag down another cab, never had a truer word been spoken in jest, thought Greg as he followed Molly into the cab and buckled himself in. He waved to John and Sherlock and closed his eyes, leaning back against the seat. Feeling Molly pat his knee, he turned his head, “Yeah?” he said.

“It will get better you know. Give it about four or five years...” five minutes later he felt her slump against his shoulder and start snoring quietly.

“Okay Molly Hooper, I’ll hold you to that.” he said quietly into her hair, “I’ll hold you to that.”

*

A couple of months or so later Greg had reason to call in to see Mycroft at his place of work. He had arranged the meeting with Anthea, who, when asked about her bosses welfare, dodged the question and suggested that he see for himself when he came in.

On arriving, he was greeted by a tense looking Anthea, she seemed on the verge of saying something, but bit back her words when telephone on her desk rang once. “He’s ready for you sir.” She said, gesturing towards the door. Greg got up from his seat and knocked, before letting himself in.

Mycroft was seated at his desk, seemingly occupied with paperwork. As Greg made to walk towards the visitors chair, Mycroft looked up and Greg stopped in his tracks. He quickly took in the appearance of the man in front of him, the black eye, the signs of sleeplessness, the rapid weight loss, and he let out a gasp.

“Jesus Christ Mycroft, what happened to you?”

The other man made one excuse after the other, but Greg knew signs of domestic abuse when he saw it, and he felt pure rage lick like flames inside him. As much as he offered to help, he was deflected away by the other man, until he could do no more than make a feeble excuse and leave.

After work that evening he found himself outside 221b. He felt uneasy discussing his concerns about Mycroft with his brother, but he felt he had no other choice. John let him in and looked surprised to see him, “Is there a case? Sherlock never mentioned anything…”

“No. It’s personal. There’s something I need to talk to you both about.”

“Well you better come up then,” John said with concern, “I’ll get the kettle on, you go and make yourself comfortable. Tea?”

Greg smiled and nodded, John seemed to think that tea was the solution to all woes, but he wasn’t opposed to a warm drink inside him.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, plucking at his violin strings when Greg sat down at one end of the settee. “I take it from your general demeanour that this is a personal call. What is playing so heavily on your tiny mind Gary?”

“It’s Greg, you buffoon, and can we quit with all that shit before you even start. I’ve come about your brother, I’m concerned about him. I went to see him today and he looked like he’d been given a good hiding. He’s lost weight, looks like he’d not sleeping either. It’s flagging up everything we’ve been taught to look for in a domestic abuse case. He’s denying it of course, but my gut’s telling me he’s in trouble Sherlock.”

John entered the room with a tray of mugs and biscuits on a saucer. “Sherlock, you need to talk to him. When we last saw him we both noticed he’d lost a lot of weight, and you said that he’s been treated for an eating disorder in the past. I’ll come with you if you like, we can talk to him together…”

Sherlock put his violin down and looked at John, a worried expression played over his face, “No John, I think if we both turn up he’ll just feel ganged up on, that won’t achieve anything. I’ll go in the morning, I’ll ambush him when he’s alone, either in his car or, if Paul leaves for work first, I’ll catch him before he goes into the office. He needs to know that I can see what’s going on, he won’t be able to lie to me. I’ll set off early and hang around and watch the house then decide what to do.”

“Sherlock, you don’t need to do this alone.” John said putting his hand on the younger man’s knee, “Let me help love.”

“Thank you John, you do help, and you will, but right now he’s denying there’s a problem. If we all show up mob handed, he’ll just retreat further and that won’t help at all. Let me try alone, let me see if I can get him to open up a little,” Sherlock said putting his hand over Johns and squeezing it hard.

Greg took a mug of tea off the tray and took a sip, “You know Sherlock, if he keeps denying it, you can’t make him leave, he’ll just end up going back. He’s got to realise the danger he’s in and want to leave of his own accord. I’ve seen it time and again, it’s hard you know, watching them keep going back, you fear for ‘em. We can keep an eye out for him, but we can’t force him to do something if he’s not ready.”

“I know. He’s a stubborn fool as well, which has served him well in some cases, mostly to do with me I fear. You know as well as I do Greg, all the times he kept coming back when I insisted that I never wanted to see him again. He scraped me off the bottom of the barrel more times than I care to admit, he never gave up on me, and I won’t give up on him.”

“Right. Let me know how it goes. I told him he could call me any time, day or night, if he ever needs my help. Christ it was awful to see him like that. I could swing for that bastard.”

“He’s lucky to have you for a friend, we Holmes’ don’t make friends easily, but when we do, it seems we attract a very small, but very loyal following.” Sherlock said smiling at John and then Greg.

“Hey. Less of the small!” John said, his eye’s never leaving Sherlock’s. Greg took that as his cue to leave, so he stood up and made to move towards the door. Sherlock rose to follow him and put his hand firmly on the older man’s arm, “Thank you Graham, Mycroft is very fortunate to have a friend who cares about his wellbeing as much as you do. I’ll be in touch.” He grinned weakly and squeezed Greg’s arm tightly, just for a second, before closing the door behind his retreating back. “Come John, early night, I’ve got to ride into battle tomorrow, I need my sleep.”

Greg let himself out of the front door and decided to walk home. On his way he took a detour via Mycroft’s town house, the lights were on downstairs, the curtains pulled tight. He wondered if all was well inside, he hovered for a few minutes, and then decided that he had done all he could for the night, so he flipped up his collar against the biting cold and carried on briskly towards home.

*


	3. Chapter 3

The next time Greg bumped into Mycroft he was pleasantly surprised at the change in the man. Greg was doing a colleague a favour, his old DCI had been called away unexpectedly, leaving his wife, a jolly horsey type called Clarissa, with no one to escort her to the opera, Greg found himself blackmailed with a large hint about securing a couple of tickets in a sponsor’s box for the cup final. The woman herself was pleasant enough company, in fact, at the interval, she had bumped into some friends and Greg just stood at her side like a spare part until he spotted a familiar face across the room. Mycroft was standing alone, leaning against the wall, next to an open window, the slight breeze ruffling his hair. He was wearing a slim fitting tuxedo and he looked relaxed and, Greg’s brain filled in the missing words, completely fucking edible. Before he could talk himself out of it, he slipped away from his companion and walked across the room.

“Mycroft Holmes,” he said, the other man turned to face him, “well, fancy seeing you here.”

Mycroft’s face split into a grin as he greeted his old friend. Greg complimented him on how well he looked, he had regained a little weight, he looked well rested and healthier than Greg had seen him look in a long while, and all would have been fine if not for Greg making the assumption that this improvement in his wellbeing was because Mycroft had finally seen sense and dumped Paul. Unfortunately he vocalised these thoughts, and, as usual, his timing was perfect, because as soon as the words, “I take it you’ve kicked that tosser to the curb,” were out of his mouth, the tosser himself appeared. Mycroft was immediately thrown off balance, that calm, confident expression he'd worn but a moment ago was replaced by what? Uncertainty? Fear? Greg noticed that his friend’s hands were shaking and that he seemed to shrink under the relentless gaze of his lover. Greg, took a backwards step and immediately apologised to Paul, siting his obvious jealousy as the reason for his words, he quickly made his excuses and went back to find Clarissa.

Just before the curtain went up to herald the second act, there was some excitement in the foyer, a small crowd gathered because someone had apparently fallen down the stairs. Greg noticed an ambulance pulling up to the front doors and the poor creature was wheeled outside and loaded up. Greg followed a few ambulance chasers outside, and it was only when he saw Paul loudly making a fuss about not being allowed inside the ambulance, that Greg realised the injured party was Mycroft. Greg tried to stay hidden from Paul, who was still distracted, arguing fiercely with a medic, who, to be fair, was having none of it, and got as close to the ambulance as possible, just before the doors closed, he locked eyes with Mycroft, who looked in pain and frightened, in the brief few seconds that they stared into each other’s eyes Greg made a silent promise to himself, that, if he was ever given the opportunity, he would knock ten bells out of Paul, even if it cost him his badge.

In the three months that followed Greg texted Mycroft over fifty times, asking after his health, asking if he could help in any way, begging him to respond. He also left countless voicemails,

 

**Hi Mycroft, it’s Greg. Just wondered if you were okay…you know…I haven’t heard from you in ages and I was just…you know… John said you broke your arm. Call me if you want to, ok?**

~~~~~

**Mycroft, it’s me, Greg, I haven’t heard anything, just wondered if you’ve been getting my messages? Call me eh?**

~~~~~

**Mycroft, will you just let me know you’re ok. For fucks sake. I’m worried about you. Oh, it’s Greg by the way, not that you wouldn’t know that, caller ID and all that. Call me please.**

~~~~~

**Look. If you can’t or don’t want to call me, just leave a message with John or Sherlock, please Mycroft.**

~~~~~

**Sherlock said you’re back at work, can I come in to see you?**

~~~~~

**Ok. Enough of this ignoring me shit, I’m coming round to your office. If you’re too busy I’ll leave you a note with Anthea, at least then I’ll know you’ve got it. If I don’t hear anything after that then I’ll take the hint.**

~~~~~

Greg arrived at Mycroft’s place of work late one Thursday afternoon, he’d been at court and it had finished earlier than expected so he took the opportunity to make an impromptu call. Anthea was sitting at her desk in the outer office typing frantically at her keyboard, she glanced up as the door opened and he walked in. She immediately looked over to the heavy wooden door separating them from Mycroft’s study and back at Greg. He knew without a doubt that the man was inside, but he also knew that if he made a move closer to the door that Anthea would leap out of her seat and bar the way. He sighed and spoke,

“Look. I’m not here to cause trouble. I know I’ve not got an appointment, but he’s not answering my texts or voicemails, and I just wondered if I could have a few minutes with him?”

Anthea looked at him suspiciously, “I would have thought that if Mr Holmes wanted to see you, he would have been in touch himself.”

“Yeah. Well…unless he’s not getting them, or he’s not being allowed to reply?” Greg let that hang there for a moment.

Anthea narrowed her eyes at him and quirked a small smile, “I can see how you might come to that conclusion…However, Mr Holmes is in a meeting at present, and will be for some time…I can’t interrupt, well not if I value my job. Which I do, Detective Inspector.”

“I see…” Greg’s frowned, part of him wanted to rush to the door and wrench it open, but he fought the impulse, “If I wrote him a note, would you see he got it?”

Anthea nodded and pushed a pen and notebook over to him, Greg thought for a moment and then wrote clearly and carefully,

_Mycroft,_

_I’m worried about you. I feel that I was_

_to blame for whatever happened that_

_night. It just seems too convenient that_

_I piss him off and you end up in plaster._

_I wish you would answer your goddamn_

_phone. Just let me know you are ok._

_Greg_

He tore the note out of the book, folded it twice and gave it to her. She placed it in the in-tray and held her hand out for the book and pen, he handed them over with a wry smile,

“Damn. I was gonna keep hold of that, it writes nicely.”

“Yes it would. It was a gift from Mr Holmes, a Montblanc Starwalker, put it on your Christmas list.” Anthea said sarcastically.

He grimaced at the thought of how much the pen probably cost, “Hmmm, I don’t think I’ve been that good…”

Anthea struggled to keep from smiling, she dropped her voice to a low whisper, “Yeah, I’ve heard…Look, I’ll see he gets this. I can’t promise he’ll answer, you know his situation, his partner is the jealous type,” her mouth twisted bitterly at the word ‘partner’, “I’m keeping an eye on him, so is Sherlock, it’s under the radar if you get my drift. I’ve seen the bruises, I know what’s going on…”

Greg nodded, “If there’s anything I can do, just let me know…I’ll abuse my position without a second thought…you have to know that. If you think there’s any chance he’s in real danger, you call me. Alright?”

“Yes. Received and understood,” Anthea said, she stood and held out her hand, “I sincerely hope we won’t be seeing each other very soon Greg.”

“Yeah me too, me too.”

The following morning Greg received a text.

**I am healing Gregory, please don’t worry. Thank you for your concern. MH**


	4. Chapter 4

*

It was on a Saturday morning, three months later that Greg got a call over the radio that there had been a man attacked on the road where Mycroft lived, suspected stabbing, the victim unconscious and bleeding out, perpetrator being restrained by two members of the public, ambulance and police on their way. He went cold, and somehow he just knew that the wounded man was Mycroft. He started the engine, switched on the siren and blue lights and screamed off towards the crime scene.

He arrived at the same time as the ambulance, his instinct was to go to Mycroft but the medics were immediately all over him, and judging by the blood loss he would be need everything that they could pull out of the bag. So instead he made his way over to where two burly blokes were practically sitting on a protesting Paul, he was shouting and swearing but they were taking no notice. Pulling out his badge, he waved it in their faces and got out his handcuffs, “I’ll take it from here guys. Don’t go anywhere, there’ll be someone along to take your details in a minute or two,” he could hear the approaching sirens. He slammed Paul face down into the road, and slapped the cuffs onto his wrists, ““You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

From out of the corner of his eye he could see Mycroft being loaded into the ambulance, he was a bloody mess and unmoving, there was a sudden flurry of movement and one of the medics started to perform CPR whilst the other charged the defibrillator, the scene seemed to unfold in slow motion as he watched the men work to keep Mycroft alive. After a few minutes it seemed that their efforts had paid off, the doors were slammed shut and the ambulance fled scene, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

Two other police cars and a van had arrived by now, Greg pulled Paul up roughly and pushed him forwards, as he walked him slowly towards the van, a motorbike appeared out of nowhere and screeched to a halt nearby, a leather-clad figure alighted, pulled off her helmet, and hit the ground running. Anthea flew at Paul, almost knocking him out of Greg’s grip, she landed a terrific blow which burst Paul’s nose open, before three officers managed to pull her off. “Get her out of here,” Greg shouted, “She’s the victims PA, take her down to the yard and put her in my office, make sure she gets some ice for her hand and put Donovan on the door.” He couldn’t help but be impressed at the punch, nor the way she had so quickly found out what had happened, he suspected CCTV had been involved and made a mental note to pull the footage.

Anthea was taken away unrestrained in the back of a police car, Greg pushed Paul into the van, locked the doors and instructed the officers to take him in, he would follow as soon as he had the crime scene secured. He made a quick call to find out where Mycroft was being taken and then rang Sherlock, who answered on the second ring, “Yes Lestrade, a case? I do hope it’s nothing bor…”

“Sherlock, its Mycroft. He’s on his way to Saint Mary’s, he’s got stab wounds. Just get over there quickly.”

Greg heard Sherlock shout for John and the phone pass hands, “Greg? What the fuck?”

“John. You need to get Sherlock over to Saint Mary’s, its Mycroft. Paul attacked him...I’ve got him in cuffs and I’m taking him in. Christ, John, Mycroft’s in a bad way. Let me know what’s happening, please, eh?.”

“Shit. Yeah, right. I’d better get after Sherlock, he’s outside flagging down a cab, hasn’t even got his shoes on. I’ll ring you,” the line went dead.

Greg followed the police van after the scene had been secured and he was confident that the other officers were following his orders to take down the names of everyone who had witnessed the attack. He arrived at NYS just as Paul was being taken down to the cells. “I’ll see to this gentleman, if you could just give me a couple of minutes and then send down a first aider.”

Nothing was recorded or reported about the five minutes Greg spent in the cell alone with Paul, but when the first aider arrived it was decided that a visit to A and E was in order. The suspect was reported to have sustained a broken rib and fractured ulna, his nose was also broken. He had bruising consistent to being kicked repeatedly in the ribs. This was all put down to him struggling when originally restrained by the two civilians who came to Mycroft’s assistance, and treated as reasonable force. Pauls complaints of police brutality were dismissed and records lost. 

Later, after Paul was returned to his cell, Greg went upstairs to deal with Anthea. She was sitting with her feet propped on his desk drinking a coffee and fiddling with her phone.

“Oi! Get out of my chair, bloody cheek.” Greg said struggling not to laugh.

“Mycroft is in surgery. Sherlock and John are at the hospital. I’ve alerted everyone who needs to know, and the footage from the CCTV cameras will be on your desk by tonight…You should have let me finish the job Greg…” she said, as she slid into the other chair.

“What? That would have been giving him the easy option. I’m going to see he spends a fucking long stretch in prison, and I’ve enough mates in the prison service to make sure that he has a thoroughly unpleasant time of it…” Greg said dropping into his seat.

“Can I go?” she asked, “I’d like to get over to the hospital, see if I can do anything to help Sherlock. Not that he’ll take anything offered, but John will appreciate an extra pair of hands. I take it you’ll be busy for a few hours?”

“Yeah, got a shitload of statements to take care of, evidence to go through. Got to make this one stick. You get off, no one saw anything. Keep me informed eh?”

“He’s a fighter Greg. If anyone can pull through, it’s him. I’ll ring if there’s any news.” She swallowed down the rest of her coffee, stood up and walked to the door, pausing, she turned, “I don’t know if you go in for all this, but a prayer or two mightn’t go amiss…”

“Not my division I’m afraid…” Greg said solemnly, “let’s just leave it to the surgeons and science eh?”

She nodded and left, shutting the door behind her.

Greg let his head drop onto the desk and felt the lump that had been sitting in his chest since he had heard the initial call that morning, rise up in his throat as a sob, his eyes pricked with unshed tears. He allowed himself exactly five minutes to fall apart and then he wiped his tears, blew his nose and got back to work. It was going to be a long night.

*

Four days later he got the call form John that Mycroft was conscious and his vitals were good, Greg breathed easily for the first time in ages. The day that he’d arrested Paul for attempted murder, he’d been in his office until well after midnight, as he left for home he was drawn to the hospital where Mycroft was still under observation after a four hour operation to patch him up. As he entered the hospital he noticed a small coffee shop on his left, John was slumped at a table, seemingly asleep, Sherlock had one arm slung across his shoulder, the other hand occupied with his phone. As Greg approached Sherlock put a finger to his lips and nodded down at John. Greg quietly took a seat opposite, the two men spoke in whispers.

“He’s survived the operation, it was a bit touch and go, but he’s in post op’ under observation. The surgeon said it was up to him now, he’s being kept sedated for a few days and pumped full of antibiotics…”

“Christ Sherlock. When they took him away in the ambulance…there was so much blood…I didn’t think someone could lose so much blood and live…”

“Yes. Well. It’s very fortunate that Mycroft has a common blood type, O, as much as he’d like people to believe that he has blue blood in his veins, so they had a good stock of it.”

Greg looked at John, who was snoring quietly and drooling onto the table. “He looks like he’s out for the count.”

Sherlock smiled fondly at his fiancé, “He’s been propping me up all day, he’s exhausted…I don’t know what I’d have done without him…” he looked up at Greg, “Well actually, I think we both know what I’d have done don’t we…”

“All that’s in the past Sherlock,” Greg said patting the younger man on the arm, “you just make sure he gets some sleep then he can look after you again in the morning...Anyhow...I do believe that before all the shit hit the fan this morning, I received an invitation to a wedding…”

Sherlock smiled and nodded, “Yes. It appears that John is quite the traditionalist at heart, he wanted it all formalized between the two of us in front of witnesses. He suggested my birthday as the wedding day because it was unlikely I’d forget our anniversary,” he huffed a quiet laugh, “as if I would forget anything as important as that, he must take me for a fool.”

Greg grinned, “He did tell me you’d deleted the solar system, and you’re pretty shit at my name…” he caught Sherlock’s eye and the younger man tutted under his breath, “Honestly George, as if…”

Greg looked at his watch, it was almost 2am and he knew he’d be dragged back into work in the morning, “I’d better get off, keep me informed yeah?”

Sherlock nodded and picked up his phone again becoming absorbed immediately. Greg buttoned up his coat and headed off to his car and a cold flat.

*


	5. Chapter 5

The day Mycroft woke up, John rang Greg to let him know. Greg arranged to visit later that day, he had to see for himself that Mycroft was alright. On his way there he found himself hovering in front of a florists wondering if it was appropriate to take flowers to a man in hospital. He went in anyhow and the woman at the counter greeted him with a smile.

“Hello. Can I help you?”

“Well, I was just wondering…I’ve got a friend, he’s in hospital, do men buy flowers for other men?”

The woman laughed, “Well, I suppose that would depend if you were confident that the man receiving them would like them…Do you think he'd have a problem with that?”

“Nah, he’s posh. His place is probably filled with them. It’s me, I’m not very good with this sort of stuff, wouldn’t know where to start…though…” he hesitated, “I know he likes those blue ones over there,” he pointed at a silver bucket containing irises, “I saw a card he bought a friend of ours, it was a painting of them, he said they were his favorite…”

“Irises. Yes they are beautiful. The flower symbolises faith, wisdom, cherished friendship...promises of love…would that be…appropriate?” She smiled and continued, “I could make you up a hand tied bouquet with some of those yellow roses, they’re famous for symbolising friendship and get well wishes, and they look gorgeous together, complementary colours.”

“Yeah...I think all that sounds fine...Do your magic…” Greg said checking his pockets for his wallet. Ten minutes later he left the shop carrying a large bouquet, and continued his walk to the hospital feeling a little awkward at the glances he was getting from other men. He knew those looks, he’d given them in the past whenever he’d seen a man carrying flowers, it was the ‘I wonder what he’s in the doghouse for?’ look.

He arrived at Mycroft’s room, flashed his badge, and gave a nod to the man sitting outside the door with the not so well hidden gun holster. He knocked, and entered, Mycroft was propped up in bed looking translucently pale, John was sitting next to him reading, and Sherlock was leaning against the wall fiddling with his phone. They all looked up as he entered, “Hi, are you up to a quick visit?” He hovered in the doorway, uncertain of his welcome. Mycroft smiled shyly, looking at the bouquet Greg was awkwardly holding,

“Of course Gregory, please come in. What beautiful flowers, thank you.”

Sherlock looked from Mycroft to Greg, pushed himself away from the wall and strode over to John, physically manhandled him from his seat and demanded that they go and eat right now. John looked a little puzzled but allowed himself to be maneuvered out of the room without too much fuss. The door shut and the two men were left alone. Mycroft instructed Greg to put the flowers in the small sink and then take a seat, as the only chair was the one next to the bed, Greg sat down in that and made himself comfortable.

Their conversation was, predictably, about the attack. Mycroft was given a slightly edited version of Paul’s arrest, with hints that the man wasn’t particularly popular with Greg’s colleagues, and that the evidence was all pointing to a long stretch inside at Her Majesty’s pleasure. What upset Greg the most, more than seeing his friend in obvious pain, was the way Mycroft seemed to think that he deserved the treatment he had received. Greg had worked with victims of domestic abuse, and so it came as no surprise that Mycroft was behaving in that way, but it hurt to see his friend brought so low by that bastard, Greg almost wished he had let Anthea finish the job that she was obviously very well trained to do. He did his best to reassure Mycroft that everything that he was feeling was normal, in the circumstances, and that it would get better in time. He also arranged for one of his colleagues to accompany him in the morning to take a statement from Mycroft.

He got up to leave when he saw that Mycroft was beginning to tire, it took him all his willpower not to lean over and give the man a kiss on the cheek before he left, instead he took the man’s hand and gave it a squeeze, and locked eyes with him, hoping that in that simple gesture he could portray all the feelings that were flooding through him.

“Right. I’ll be off. Sleep well Mycroft.” He said and headed to the door, one last glance behind him found the other man already settling into his pillows, eyes closed, but with a small smile on his lips.

*

Mycroft was discharged from hospital a week later, Anthea had persuaded the doctors that he would be well cared for at home. So, for a short while, John and Sherlock had a guest at 221b, and between them, and Mrs. Hudson, administered to his every need. Eventually, after a few raised voices, Mycroft agreed to move to his parents’ house to wait out the rest of his convalescence. He put his own house on the market as he was unable to face going back through the doors, there were too many unhappy memories. Anthea made all the arrangements, most of the furniture was sold, apart from a few heirloom pieces that Mycroft could not bear to part with, and his clothes and other personal items were put into storage until Mycroft could decide his next move.

It turned out that spending a month with his parents was just the incentive he needed to find himself a nice property in Belgravia, it was small, only two bedrooms, but downstairs there was a beautifully laid out kitchen that led out into a small enclosed garden, the living room was light, airy and large, and could easily accommodate a dining table and his piano, the small dining room he would convert into a study. He visited it with Anthea just once before he offered the full asking price with a generous added cash incentive for a quick completion. In less than four weeks he was moved in, and three days later went back to work, with both John and Antheas blessing.

Greg saw Mycroft at John and Sherlock’s wedding, they found themselves seated next to each other on the top table with the parents of both groom’s and Mrs. Hudson. Greg found himself with the dubious role of best man for John, and Mycroft was Sherlock’s. As he helped John into his jacket before the ceremony, John did point out that as there was no Maid of Honour, Greg would have to make do with a quick fumble with Mycroft. Neither man could have predicted how red Greg would blush at that suggestion. There was no fumbling, but Greg did enjoy Mycroft’s company and could not fail to notice how much better he was looking, and how enthusiastically he talked about his new house. He made some mention of a counselor he was seeing on a weekly basis and how much it was helping, especially with the court case looming. Greg tried to reassure Mycroft that he had nothing to worry about and that with all the evidence that they had against Paul, he would be sent down for a long time.

In the end Paul was found guilty of attempted murder, and considerable long term physical and psychological harm was taken into account. He received 15 years. After the sentencing, Sherlock, John and Mycroft bumped into Greg as they were leaving the courts, they invited him back to 221b where they all drank a little too much champagne and ate takeaway out of tin foil containers, a first for Mycroft who kept protesting that he had been brought down to the level of a barbarian by his brother-in-law, much to Johns amusement. Greg had later cadged a lift from Mycroft’s driver and sat in the back of the car listening to Mycroft babble on about the necessity of maintaining standards and not behaving like savages at the dining table, he made a gloriously entertaining drunk.

Months passed, he saw Mycroft occasionally through work, bumped into him at the odd crime scene, or at John and Sherlock’s flat. Eventually he hauled John out to the pub one evening on the pretext of signing some paperwork, once this was done and their pints refilled, Greg brought Mycroft up in the conversation...casually…

“So...Mycroft seems well…have you heard how he’s doing?”

“Greg? Is this going to be the ‘I fancy your husband’s brother, will you ask him out for me?’ conversation? John teased, nudging his mate with his elbow.

Greg spluttered into his pint, “Bloody hell John…I was only asking…you know…how he’s doing? He looks a lot better, healthier, I just thought…ah, fuck it…”

“Get a grip man! He’s good. He was seeing a counselor for a while, you know, to deal with all that stuff. It’s not my cup of tea, but each to their own, anyway, it looks like it’s helped. I think he’s done with that now from what he was telling Sherlock the other day. He’s at the office less, you know, finishing at a reasonable time, letting Anthea take some of the slack. There’s nothing like almost dying to make you realise what your priorities are.”

Greg nodded, “I guess you’d know about that. So, you think he’s getting back to normal then? Well as normal as a Holmes gets, obviously…”

John laughed, “Yeah, I think so, and I am the world’s expert in that field I suppose. So, go on, what’s with all the questions?”

“I just wondered, that’s all. I’ve not really had much time to talk to him, thought he might be avoiding me to be honest, and I just wanted to make sure he was alright. I don’t suppose he’s been seeing anyone has he?”

“As in romantically?” John quizzed.

“Yeah. You know. A good looking bloke like that must get plenty of offers…”

“Christ, you’ve really got it bad haven’t you? Get your arse over there and ask him out. That’s the best way to find out. How old are you? Fourteen?”

Greg shrugged before John continued, “Look, between you and me, I think he’s had a bit of a thing for you for a long time, before all this fuckery with Paul. I think he was scared of saying anything because…well he didn’t want to risk your friendship, and you weren’t long divorced, I guess he was worried he’d put his foot in it. But now, well, he’s probably just nervous, I mean, who wouldn’t be with what he’s had to deal with over the last couple of years. But I think if you approached him right, you know, carefully, just let him know you’re interested, well you never know. Stranger things have happened…”

“You mean you and Sherlock?” Greg teased.

“Fuck off, tosser!” John laughed “Yeah, you’re probably right though…Go and see him Greg, turn on that silver fox charm, you’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time…”

*


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So. Last chapter. There be a soupçon of smut and a happy ending all round. Hurrah!

The following afternoon found Greg walking into Anthea’s office clutching a pot of irises he’d grown on his kitchen window sill. He’d planted them months ago, seen them on a stall on the market and the man selling them had given him explicit instruction on how to grow them. Originally he’d planted them so that when they flowered they would be a nice reminder of Mycroft, but then, as the buds began to open, he realised that he wanted to give them to the other man, make a present of them. So now he was standing, feeling a little stupid, clasping the pot in his hands and wishing he didn’t feel so nervous.

Anthea showed him through to Mycroft’s office, he was sitting behind the large mahogany desk fiddling with some paperwork, Greg walked over and plonked the pot on the desk right in front of the other man and then sat down. Mycroft looked from the pot to Greg and back again, a fond expression lighting up his face, Greg started to explain the why’s and wherefores of his gift, a jumbled love story of an explanation, and then there was movement, Mycroft was out of his chair and standing in front of Greg asking permission. There was kissing, a lot of kissing, and hushed words, and promises, and before Greg knew it he had secured himself a date for that evening and he was sitting back in his chair, with a cup of tea in one hand, a shortbread biscuit in the other, and they were discussing the upcoming vote on Europe. And he was grinning, positively beaming at Mycroft, and the best thing was that Mycroft was grinning right back at him.

*

That evening Greg spent almost two hours getting ready, not since the eyeliner and hair gel years of the 80’s had he devoted so much time to his appearance. He was meeting Mycroft at The Ivy, not too exclusive or expensive, but good food and not so scarily posh that he’d be frightened that he’d use the wrong fork. He put on his best suit, the one he’d worn for John and Sherlock’s wedding, a deep blue/grey, if he remembered rightly, Mycroft had cast an appreciative eye over it when he’d arrived at the wedding venue. He spiked his hair a little, just on the right side of rebel, and straightened his tie. Taking one last look in the mirror he winked at his reflection, “Go get him!” he said to himself as he picked up his keys and headed out of the door.

He arrived at the restaurant five minutes early, Mycroft was already there, stood next to the bar chatting to the Maître d. From the way they were interacting, Greg guessed that Mycroft was a regular at the restaurant, so at least he hadn’t screwed up suggesting it. He approached them and Mycroft turned and smiled at him, “Ah, Fernando, here is my date. Doesn’t he look handsome?” Mycroft gave Greg the once over, very slowly, greedily taking him all in, and then introduced him to the older gentleman. Greg must have passed muster because he was greeted warmly and they were both shown to their table immediately. Greg asked Mycroft to select the wine, they decided that as they were both eating fish, a white wine would be appropriate, so he chose a mid-priced Pouilly-Fuissé, which wasn’t out of Greg’s price range but still tasted delicious.

The waiter brought their starters, he placed their plates carefully and then disappeared, Greg looked at his risotto and then across the table at Mycroft, “I have to say Mycroft, this looks delicious, but I’m so nervous that I’m not sure I’m going to enjoy it…”

Mycroft let out a laugh, “Oh thank God, I thought it was just me, I’ve changed my suit twice and my shirt three times. I feel like a bloody teenager.”

Greg grinned, “I guess it’s the anticipation, I’ve been imagining this, you know, us, on a date, for so long…years…I’m just scared of screwing it up by getting spinach stuck in my teeth or knocking my glass over.”

“I promise I’ll let you know if you have anything questionable stuck in your teeth, and believe me, if anyone is going to knock anything over, it will be me, I’m famous for being clumsy, ask Sherlock about the punch bowl at our grandparents golden wedding party. I still have nightmares about it…”

And just like that the awkwardness vanished, both men suddenly feeling at ease, they tucked into their meals with gusto and the conversation flowed easily between them. It was almost 11pm when Mycroft looked at his watch and realised that they had been talking nonstop for almost three hours, Greg signaled to the waiter, who brought the bill over, he paid, declining any offer to go dutch from Mycroft, and suggesting that the younger man paid next time. Mycroft seemed happy with this idea and, by the time they were both out on the street, had a couple of ideas already filed away for where he would like to take Greg on their second date.

They stood in front of the restaurant, Greg put his hands in his pockets, “Well, is a big car going to suddenly sweep you up and whisk you away, or should I look for a cab?”

“I do have a car available. If you’d like, you could come back to mine for coffee…or we can drop you home if you prefer.”

“Coffee sounds good.” Greg said with a grin. Mycroft took out his phone and sent a text, a couple of minutes later a black car pulled up and they were both on their way to Mycroft’s house.

Greg followed the other man into a small entrance hall, Mycroft took his overcoat and hung it up on the coat rack, “Would you like the tour?” he asked, “It won’t take long, or would you just like to watch me pretend to know what I’m doing with the infernal coffee machine that Anthea insisted I buy?”

“Coffee probably isn’t such a great idea so late...” suggested Greg, “I wouldn’t mind taking a look upstairs though?” he nodded over to the staircase with a cheeky expression on his face.

“Oh? Oh!” Mycroft stuttered, “Yes…I see…okay, if you’re sure…”

“I’m sure I’m not really here because I want coffee Mycroft, but if you’re not ready, or you don’t want this, just tell me and I’ll back right off. Your pace Mycroft.”

“I want this, I want you Gregory…I’m just…well…a little out of practice. We both know the last time I attempted anything like this…it didn’t go well…” Mycroft looked into Greg’s deep brown eyes and quirked a smile, “I trust you Greg. You’ve had my back since the very first, when you took my brother under your wing. You asked for nothing in return…I’m asking you to take me under your wing now Gregory. Show me how to do this the right way…”

Greg pulled the other man into his arms and held him close, “What do you need? What do you want? Just tell me Myc.”

“I need you. I want…everything…I want a proper relationship…equals. Where I’m not frightened that if I don’t do what you want, that you’ll…” he paused and took a shuddering breath, “…that you’ll hit me, or hurt me…or leave me…I want that…with you…I want to share a bed with you, and wake up with you every morning. I want to make you happy Greg, I want you to know every day that you are loved. That’s what I want…Please.”

Greg took Mycroft’s face in his hands gently, looked into his eyes, and smiled, “You can have that. I promise you that I’ll never intentionally hurt you in any way Mycroft. I have…” his voice lowered, “I have loved you for, Christ, I don’t know how long? Since I saw you sitting next to Sherlock’s bedside at the hospital, the first time he OD’d, and you were reading him Treasure Island. Since the time you spotted a cat hiding behind the wheel of my car, you got down on your knees and coaxed it out, picked it up and then told it off for playing in the road. Since that time I saw you raise an eyebrow when John called Sherlock a fuckwit for licking the knee of a corpse…I have loved you for so long that I’m not going to risk fucking it up now. I’m yours’s Myc, however you want me, for as long as you want me. We do it at your pace, and if you decide that you’ve changed your mind and you want us to go back to being friends, then I’ll take that rather than not having you in my life…When he…when Paul…I thought he’d killed you Myc…I would have finished him…” he closed his eyes and leant his head against Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft held him and stroked circles on his back, trying to reassure Greg that everything was fine, “Gregory, my dear, please don’t get upset, I never want that…that…excuse of a man…to cause us more distress. It’s over. He got his comeuppance and that part of my life is over. I want a new life, a life with you. I know that we’re going to run up against thing’s that I might react to, but I promise I’ll talk to you, I won’t let him, or anything he did to me, build a wall between us…” he pulled back and smiled at Greg, his eyes shining with unshed tears, “Gregory, my love, we can stand here all night in a cold hallway, or we can go upstairs to a warm bedroom. I know what I’d prefer…” he took hold of his hand and encouraged him to follow.

Now that words had been spoken that had needed to be said, the weight of the past seemed to lift. Greg followed Mycroft upstairs into his cosy bedroom, the curtains were already drawn and a bedside lamp lit. Closing the door behind them, he watched as Mycroft stood shyly, fingers paused on his waistcoat buttons, unsure of how to proceed. “Here, let me do that. Please. I’ve wanted to unwrap you for years. I’ve dreamed about what’s underneath all those beautiful suits…” He walked over, reached up and placed a tender kiss on the other man’s lips, and then, with the utmost care, he slowly disrobed him, one piece of clothing at a time. Dropping kisses on each area of skin he revealed, until Mycroft stood there before him in all his naked glory, pale and softly illuminated in the lamplight. Only then did he undress himself, kicking off his shoes and hurriedly shedding his own clothes, desperate to embrace him, skin on skin. Mycroft lead him to the bed, pulled back the covers and slipped underneath, he drew Greg to him, they lay on their sides facing each other, pressed so tightly together that Greg could not tell if the heartbeat, that he could feel pounding, was Mycroft’s or his own.

They began to explore each other slowly, Greg allowing Mycroft to set the pace, fingers, and then lips, on the pulse of his throat, on his nipples, teasing them until they stood erect and aching from the attention. Mouth on his mouth, deep kisses, tantalising, nibbling, and biting his lips. Hands in his hair, tugging gently, encouraging him to kiss deeper, more, more. He rolled Mycroft on top of him, delighting in his weight pressing him into the mattress, hips aligned, the feeling of another cock jutting proud and unyielding against his own, Mycroft gasping as Greg thrust his hips upwards to get more friction. Reaching down between them both, Greg wrapped his hand around Mycroft’s length, causing the man to moan into his neck, his damp breath hitching as a drop of pre-come oozed from his slit and over, onto Greg’s knuckles. Mycroft could hold back no more, he began to thrust into the tight circle of Greg’s fingers, his cock leaked and Greg spread it along his shaft. Slicked in himself, he began to lose any modicum of control as he felt the beginnings of his orgasm tingle low in his gut, his balls drew up tight, and with a cry of surprise he spilled, covering Greg’s belly with his release, and collapsed on top of him, breathing heavily.

“Greg, he panted, “that was…Christ…here…let me…” he struggled to move himself, his limbs seemed to have turned to jelly.

“No. Myc, stay there…let me…God yes, just like that…” Greg rubbed himself against Mycroft, smearing the other man’s come between them, he began to thrust his trapped and aching cock rapidly against Mycroft, using the mess that he had made as lubricant. It didn’t take long before he shouted out, “Oh fuck…Myc...” and painted their bellies with his own come.

The two men lay plastered against each other, kissing, until Mycroft decided that he must move, he was conscious of his weight on top of Greg. “Here, let me go and get something to wipe us both with before we end up glued together permanently.” He peeled himself away from his new bed fellow and wobbled on unsteady legs to the bathroom. Greg heard the tap running, and a minute later Mycroft reappeared with warm, damp, flannel and a towel. “Here, you might want to get that bit under your chin too,” he said, throwing the flannel at Greg and laughing.

Greg cleaned up their combined mess, and dried himself with the proffered towel, “Come back here you, I’m all full of all them hormones that make me want to cuddle you, and you’re too upright, and too over there. Get back here and get horizontal if you don’t mind…”

Mycroft chuckled and climbed back into bed, he was immediately surrounded by warm arms and Greg buried his face in his shoulder, “Did I tell you how good you smell?” he asked of the younger man, “Criminally good. I should know, I’m a police officer. We normally have to arrest people who smell this good, for their own good of course. Just one whiff could send a crowd into a frenzy. I’ll probably have to stay very close to you, you know, for your own protection…”

“You are a fool Gregory Lestrade.” Mycroft laughed, bending to kiss the top of his head, “But if you think it might be wise, then I’ll try not to stray too far from you, I’d hate to be arrested for being a public nuisance. In fact I probably shouldn’t venture outside for a little while…”

“That’s right. I’m putting you under house arrest. For your own good. I mean...just think of the paperwork…”

They snuggled together under the covers enjoying gentle touches, muffled laughter, unhurried kisses. Eventually Mycroft succumbed to sleep and Greg held him close, feeling his warm exhalations against his side. Mycroft lay curled around him, clinging like a vine, his head tucked under Greg’s arm. He reached out with his free hand and managed to switch off the lamp without disturbing the sleeping man. As his own eyelids began to droop, and he felt himself drifting off, he bent down and planted a tender kiss on his lover’s forehead and whispered “Goodnight Myc, I’m gonna keep you right here, safely tucked under my wing…Sleep tight my love…”

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing this stuff, I love these two characters. I'm sure they'll nudge me into writing more stories in the future. Thanks for reading. Tea and cakes all round xxx

**Author's Note:**

> The seed for this story was sewn by Adores who commented on Vulnerable that they would like to see the story through Greg's eyes, I couldn't resist. Thank you.


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